Fledgling
by Heimeldat
Summary: Bruce and Dick agree that Dick has outgrown his Robin identity. With Batman's help and support, Dick's transformation into Nightwing hardly even disrupts their schedules.
1. Chapter 1

_Gotham City._

_October 4, 2013. 02:21._

Robin raised his eyebrows. "They call that security? I'm whelmed." Barely that. He might even risk a prefix and call it underwhelming.

Beside him on the roof, the lump of shadow that was Batman grunted agreement.

"Huh." Robin raised his binoculars and scanned the area again, hoping to see something he'd missed the first time around. Nope. One crummy warehouse, one chain link fence topped with barbed wire, two parked cars, two guards wandering around the inside perimeter. He was skipping a Team mission for this? Lame. He glanced sideways. "So, remind me why you need me on this one? These guys are amateurs! I could take them all down alone."

Batman adjusted his binoculars and focused on the warehouse. "Don't get cocky. Amateurs are—"

"Dangerous because they're unpredictable, I know."

"Doubly so when they're crazy enough to strap bombs to themselves."

He knew. Bruce was right: he needed someone to watch his back. But still. "You've got Batgirl now," Dick muttered.

Batman turned, eyes narrowed to white slits. "She's…backup. You're my partner."

Robin subsided. Couldn't really argue with that. He put his binoculars to his eyes again, but he wasn't looking at the warehouse. The Team had probably reached Benechem Labs by now. Even if it _was_ just the ordinary lab complex it looked like, it would have good security. They'd need his hacking skills, and he wasn't there.

"Robin."

He jerked his thoughts guiltily back to the chilly rooftop and the whelming warehouse security. He knew better than to lose focus like that.

Batman rose from his crouch. "Now."

They fired their jumplines in unison and soared over the fence and the single bored guard currently between them and the warehouse.

They hit the ground rolling, absorbing sound as well as the force of impact. No noise but the faint crunch of gravel and the whisper of capes. Robin read Batman's motions, followed his lead into a familiar pattern. Together they darted behind a pair of cars parked in the shadow of the warehouse, and the guard just kept strolling past them, unaware, swinging his gun back and forth and humming.

The guards at Benechem wouldn't be so lax. And they'd have electronic eyes backing them up. Aqualad and Tempest thought their magic could blind cameras remotely. Maybe. But it couldn't patch in a looped feed.

Bruce's hand brushed his shoulder, and he forced his thoughts away from his team. They knew what they were doing. Dick slid a magnetic tracker from his belt, tucked it under the bumper of one of the cars, knew without looking that Bruce had done the same to the other.

Batman slid forward to crouch between the cars where he could see the guard's progress. He nodded: all clear.

Robin sprang to the top of the car and from there caught the edge of the roof and swung up onto its slope. He flattened himself on his belly and watched the guard reach the end of the building and stretch, yawning. Yep, amateurs. He nodded to Batman, who climbed up after him and flowed across the roof toward the squares of light rising from the narrow skylight windows. Robin never understood why so many buildings in Gotham had skylights. It was like everyone was trying to make it easy for the bats to get in.

Well, he wasn't complaining. He joined Batman and peered down into the warehouse. A few feet below the slanted roof ran a skeleton ceiling of crossed girders with a pair of bare light bulbs hanging from them, barely lighting the room. Below that, a stack of crates, several tables covered in junk, and four men sitting in folding chairs.

"Stop looking at your watch," said one. He wore a battered cowboy hat and had his feet propped on the nearest table. "You're making me nervous."

The guy next to him shifted uneasily. "They should be here by now." He glanced at his wrist. "They should have been here ten minutes ago."

The one with the cowboy hat shrugged. "Ten minutes is nothing. Just traffic."

"In the middle of the night?"

"It happens."

Dick shifted his gaze to the other two, a bald guy and a really short guy. Their table was cluttered: bottles, cardboard packaging, a crumpled fertiliser bag, a mostly empty box of ball bearings, pipe ends and duct tape and spools of wire. All the ingredients for some pretty nasty bombs.

Tires squealed. Robin glanced behind him, down the slope of the roof, to see the guards opening the gate for a pickup truck. Something big and bulky filled the truck bed and heaped up high enough to block the back windows. The truck drove into the warehouse's shadow, out of sight.

The warehouse door squealed open. Batman pried open the skylight at the same time; Dick barely heard its stiff creaking over the noise of the metal door rising from inside. He stepped past Batman, lowered himself through the gap, and dropped silently to one of the crossbeams below. A flicker of shadow in his peripheral vision was the only sign that Batman had joined him. No need to talk or even see each other at this point.

The guys waiting below all jumped to their feet as a big black man and a petite woman strode into the warehouse. "About time," said the one who kept looking at his watch.

"We're not that late," replied the black guy. He glanced back through the door and stepped out of the way to let the two guards from outside file in after him.

But behind them…that wasn't even close to human. At first it reminded Robin of the biggest Genomorphs from Cadmus, but then more of it squeezed through the door and he thought of Clayface, and by the time its thick serpentine tail writhed into the warehouse, he just wondered how it had all fit in the bed of the pickup. So, all right, maybe this wasn't a lame mission after all. Robin grinned and slipped a birdarang out of his belt.

The black guy nodded to everyone. "Y'all ready to go? Pico?"

"Ready and eager, Tom." Baldy waved toward the crates. "One for everybody. Well, everybody but Lumpo there." He jerked a thumb at the hulking creature.

Tom grinned. "Awright. Y'all know your targets. Let's give the bastards in Washington something to think about." He held out his arms, and the others all gathered around. They formed a circle, gripping each other's hands, heads bowed. Silence fell.

Did silence still cover Benechem, or had the Team set off alarms by now?

At the other end of the beam, a glint of metal arced out of the shadows, and one of the hanging lights shattered. Dick blinked, hastily released his birdarang as startled yells rose from the men below. "It's Batman!" yelled someone, and, "Lumpo, get 'em!" shouted someone else, as the second light went out. He'd timed it wrong. He hadn't missed his cue to knock out lights since he was eleven.

No time to feel stupid. As darkness fell, Robin leapt from the beam and tapped a finger to the edge of his mask to switch the lenses to night vision, just in time to glimpse the monster in the corner springing toward him, not moving blind: it could see in the dark.

Robin twisted in mid-air and felt claws tear through his cape, missing his back by inches, and then the beast was past him and Dick's boots connected with Cowboy Hat's chest and sent the man staggering and the hat tumbling away into the dark. Robin rebounded off the man's body and flipped over to drive feet first against the back of someone's legs, one of the guards from outside. The guy still clung to his gun as he stumbled forward into the other guard, but at least he wasn't stupid enough to try shooting in the dark while off balance. Both goons went down and Robin slid free of the falling tangle of limbs and weapons. His fingertips touched the ground first, and he whirled straight into a handspring, propelled himself up and over a table and into someone's face. Four goons down in as many seconds, and Robin landed right behind Batman, as tidy as if they'd planned it that way.

The creature they called Lumpo charged again, roaring. Its claws threw up chips of concrete and its gaping mouth sprayed drool. Batman and Robin both dropped and rolled sideways, barely out of its way, and Dick flinched as flecks of its saliva spattered him and burned his exposed skin like acid. What was this monster made of?

It turned for another pass. In his peripheral vision Dick glimpsed people still stumbling around in the darkness like green-tinted ghosts, carrying crates, groping toward the door, but he didn't have time to worry about them now, because Bruce stepped into the beast's path, an explosive batarang ready in each hand, and his back hunched like an old man.

Dick grinned. He'd always liked this manoeuvre. He took a running start, landed his hands on Bruce's bent shoulders, and vaulted over Batman's head into a high flip and twist that passed him right between Lumpo's spiny ears. The beast lunged upward, jaws wide to catch him, and from below came the whir and thunk of batarangs cutting through the air and into flesh. Lumpo shrieked and flinched, and its teeth snapped shut just shy of Robin's hands as he turned in the air and released a pair of explosive birdarangs. The weapons embedded themselves in the creature's jagged eyebrow ridges, and Robin unfolded and landed sliding along its rough back.

Four explosions burst from the creature's head, it screamed again, and Dick cried out with it as the sudden light whited out his night vision and seared into his eyes. Lumpo jerked and bucked, and Robin lost his grip and tumbled down its flank, barely in control of his fall, but he managed to land rolling away from the sound of its roars, still too flash-blinded to do anything else. He heard the thud of more batarangs finding their marks – of course Bruce had remembered to shut his eyes during the explosion – and another shriek from the beast.

Dick jumped up, trying to blink his watering eyes clear. Through the blotches of swimming colour he made out the shape of Batman ducking, dodging, and then the beast's tail swept around and caught Bruce in the side, and he slammed into the wall with a grunt and crumpled to the ground. He wasn't out of the fight, Dick could see him struggling to get his feet back under him, but he looked winded; he wasn't moving fast enough. The monster lunged at him, claws scything downward.

They both fired their grapplers at the same instant. Bruce's shot toward the far end of the room; Dick's latched around Lumpo's descending claws. He felt the line go taut and pulled with all his weight. Batman slid one way and the beast jerked the other and the claws screeched lines of sparks down the metal wall inches away from Bruce's head.

Dick kept pulling, and suddenly the line loosened and he staggered back as Lumpo turned and charged at him. Great. Where was Superboy when you needed him?

Robin dodged the snapping mouth, barely, felt hot monster blood and spit burn into his skin as he grabbed onto the thing's snout and flipped himself up. The stench of acid breath and burnt flesh made him gag. He jumped again before Lumpo could shake him loose, caught one of the metal beams of the skeleton ceiling and looped his line around it, then dropped and landed in a crouch, ready to move.

"Hey, ugly, I'm right here!" He grinned, waved his arms at it for good measure, then sprinted for the far wall. This was Wally's job, Dick wasn't a runner, he felt hot stinking breath on his back, and if he wasn't quick enough—

A sickening crunch of bone and a roar of pain blasted Dick's ears as the line jerked taut and wrenched the beast's arm back, snapped it to a stop in mid-stride, bent the ceiling girder with a screech of metal, and Robin's cape slipped through the half-closed fangs and away. Lumpo crashed to the ground, snarling and mewling.

Dick straightened, panting, more from the adrenaline rush than anything else. He laughed breathlessly. "I'm a little turbed," he told the whimpering monster. "Most critters your size don't go down half so easily."

He glanced up as Batman glided across the room to join him with one hand pressed to his ribs where Lumpo's tail hit him.

"Broken?" asked Dick.

"No." Batman dropped his hand away from his side. He turned his back on the beast to look at the four men Robin had dropped. The other four must have gotten away while they were fighting. "Call Gordon," Batman said, bending to tie the men's hands and feet. "And then we need to talk."


	2. Chapter 2

I've been asked to move this to the Young Justice category, so if any of you are watching for updates, you'll have to look over there as soon as I switch it.

_The Batcave._

_October 4. 03:12._

Batman tossed him the bottle of aloe vera. Dick stripped off his gloves and daubed the soothing gel onto his skin. Angry red spots dotted his arms and cheeks where the beast's saliva and blood had touched him. It didn't burn through his uniform, but it left little dark stains in the cloth. Alfred wouldn't like that.

"Your performance tonight was disappointing," said Batman.

Dick fixed his eyes on the aloe bottle, but he could still feel Bruce's gaze on him. "I got four of them," he muttered, but he knew his fighting skills weren't the problem.

"And four escaped, with a bomb for each of them."

"We'll catch up." Dick motioned at the computer, where red points of light marked the trackers they had put on the bombers' cars.

"We shouldn't need to," growled Batman.

Dick tried one more time, still looking away. "We were a little busy with that creature."

"We would have had time to take down all eight before it attacked if we hadn't lost the element of surprise."

"Maybe, but—" Dick cut himself off. His eyes moved to the floor, tracing the wiggly line of an imperfection through the stone. Why was he making excuses? He knew he'd messed up, and he knew why. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I was distracted."

"By the Team."

"Look, I—"

The computer beeped. Incoming transmission, and perfect timing too. Dick had no idea what he was starting to say. He looked up as the map of the East Coast vanished behind an image of the Cave, and Kaldur standing in front of the camera.

Dick's breath caught at the sight of him. "Aqualad, are you all right?" Stupid question. Blood caked his hair and forehead and he held his right arm stiffly away from his side – the shoulder looked dislocated.

But he nodded wearily. "I will be fine."

"Report," said Batman.

"The facility had advanced automated defences which we could not disable. Rocket and Tempest also sustained minor injuries. We were forced to retreat. I am sorry, Batman." Kaldur bowed his head. "The mission was a failure."

"Not entirely," said Batman. "You confirmed my suspicions about the lab's true purpose. For now, rest and get medical attention. I'll debrief you tomorrow."

"Understood. Aqualad out."

The screen blinked back to the map, and Dick realised he was clenching his fists so hard they hurt. He should have been there. Then he wouldn't have been distracted on the job and Batman wouldn't be disappointed with him and the Team would have completed their mission and – "They needed me!" he burst out. "I should have been there! I could have disabled the defences, and nobody would have gotten hurt!"

"You're right."

"You can't just…what?" Bruce's blunt agreement tripped all the frustrated arguments trying to get out of his mouth and left them piled in a tangle on his tongue. "I'm right?"

Bruce sighed, pulled back his cowl, ran a gloved hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Yes. The Team needed your skills. But so did I. If you had gone with them, I would have fought alone tonight."

"You could have called Batgirl," he retorted, but half-heartedly. Barbara didn't have anything close to his rapport with Bruce. She couldn't read his body language. She didn't know the vaulting manoeuvre that let them hit the monster with explosives. She didn't have the practice to fire her jumpline at the exact same second as Batman without a command. If Robin hadn't been there, Bruce would be the one needing medical attention tonight.

Dick hunched up in his chair and wrapped his arms around his knees. It was a no-win situation. He hated those. He shivered at the memory of getting trapped in M'gann's nightmare scenario three years ago. No matter what he did, someone he cared about got hurt.

"How do you do it?" Dick asked miserably. "How do you balance your duties here and with the Justice League?"

"I don't. When I have to choose, Gotham comes first." Bruce fell silent for a moment, then said, "I had this conversation with Aqualad a few years ago."

Dick frowned into his knees. What did Kaldur have to do with this?

"He was distracted, torn between his loyalties to Atlantis and the Team."

Oh. That surprised him a little. Kaldur always seemed so calm, so confident. But then, so did Batman, and Dick knew that wasn't always true.

Bruce's hands came to rest on his shoulders. "I'm going to tell you what I told him. You can split your time between Gotham and Happy Harbour, but not your mind."

"You mean—" Dick's heart rate sped up as he realised what Bruce was saying. He squeezed his arms closer around his knees. "I have to choose." It wasn't a question.

Bruce didn't answer.

How was he supposed to make a choice like this? He started talking to fill the silence, because that was what he always did. "Bruce, you're my mentor, you're my father, my first loyalty will always be to you, but—" And as soon as that "but" slipped out, he realised he had already chosen.

Dick pulled away from under Bruce's hands, stood up, and turned around to face him. "But I'm not a kid any more," he finished. Now that he'd started, the words kept coming, rushing, pouring out as if he'd been waiting to release them. "You taught me to take charge, to plan and prepare and put every situation under my control, and I can't do that as long as people think of me as the kid who follows you around, the Boy Wonder, the Bat's sidekick. I've got a team of my own now, and maybe…maybe it's time for me to, you know, to step out of your shadow and become the leader you trained me to be."

By the time he finished, he couldn't quite meet Bruce's eyes. He hadn't meant to say all that, it just tumbled out before he could stop it.

The silence stretched a long time.

"I'm…I'm not walking out on you," said Dick uneasily when he couldn't stand it any longer. "I'm still here, I'm your partner, right? Your lieutenant. If you call, I'll always come. I just, I just need…" He trailed off. He needed what?

"You'll need a new name," said Batman.

Dick's eyes leapt up, but Bruce had already turned to face the computer.

"You're right; the world sees Robin as a child," he said, with his gaze fixed on the blinking dots of the trackers moving across the map. "Leave that identity behind." He pulled his cowl back down over his eyes and pointed to one of the red lights. "I'll follow this car. You take the other."

And that was it? Straight back to the mission like nothing happened? Dick's mind whirled. Everything shifted so suddenly, and Bruce agreed with him and respected his choice but it didn't feel like he got what he wanted. Leave that identity behind. He wasn't Robin any more. Was that what he had asked for? He wasn't sure.

He reached up slowly and unclipped his cape. It slithered down the backs of his legs and crumpled around his feet. He released the yellow clasps of his tunic, peeled back the heavy reinforced cloth and let it fall to join the cape. Now he wore all black, except for the yellow utility belt. He pulled his gloves back on.

Bruce turned from the computer, stopped. "Robin, what are you—you don't have to—"

This time Dick met Batman's eyes and smiled. "I'm not Robin any more," he said softly. Then he turned and fled to his motorcycle. Red, with a yellow R on it. He'd have to repaint it. He swung a leg over and sped out of the cave before his brain could catch up.


	3. Chapter 3

_Metropolis._

_October 4. 09:48. _

Dick's fingers tapped faster and faster against the handlebars of his bike. He couldn't sit here. He inched forward, tried to swerve around the truck ahead, but about half a dozen cars honked at him and he stopped trying. They were right, he'd probably cause an accident if he tried to squeeze through. There just wasn't enough space.

This was ridiculous. He'd been inching through bumper-to-bumper traffic for over two hours, just trying to get into the city. Was rush hour always this bad – and this long – in Metropolis? In Gotham, people got out of the way for Batman and Robin. But this wasn't Gotham. And he wasn't Robin.

He clenched his fists against his legs and tried to calm down. Bruce would tell him to run through a quick meditation exercise. He settled for a few deep breaths and another check on the GPS tracker. The blinking red dot had stopped now, only a block away, but at this rate it would take him another ten minutes to get there.

He touched his left wrist to bring the glove's holographic screen to life and scrolled through news channels. There, that looked good. He flicked a finger to maximise the image and watched a reporter gesture behind her at an aerial view of downtown Metropolis, crammed with cars and pedestrians.

Way too many pedestrians for a normal morning. Something was going on. Dick frowned and turned up the volume.

"…traffic jam like we haven't seen in years, as people pour in from miles around to watch the presidential motorcade. To those of you who are just trying to get to work, the best advice I can give you is: avoid downtown. If you can't do that, well, get ready for a long wait. Police have cordoned off Main Street from the office district to the Museum of Modern Art and Constitution Avenue from the museum to—"

Dick turned it off, feeling like an idiot. He'd let himself get caught off guard. Hadn't Batman taught him any better? He'd been driving for hours, more than enough time to do some research and figure out the most likely target. He could have come into the city by another route and found a good place to wait for the bombers to show up. But instead he spent all night trying not to think about anything more than the wind in his face and the GPS marker moving away from him, and now he was playing catch-up. Stupid, stupid.

Somewhere ahead, a light must have turned green; the traffic started inching forward again. Space opened between the cars, just enough for Dick to get through. He swerved sideways, sped down the dashed line between lanes until he found another gap, jerked over hard and shot across in front of someone's car and up onto the sidewalk. Behind him, people honked and brakes squeaked, but he didn't have time to worry about it. They could forgive him for causing a couple fender benders if he stopped a bomb from exploding.

The sidewalk wasn't much better. Pedestrians swore and yelled, but at least they moved out of the way when he didn't stop. He only managed about ten miles an hour, but that was better than sitting still. He turned the corner, nearly ran down a couple of kids who probably should have been at school, and parked next to the car he'd been following.

Abandoned, of course. An empty crate in the back seat looked like it had room for two bombs. So both his crazies were somewhere nearby, ready to blow themselves up. Somewhere in a crowd of thousands of people lining ten blocks of downtown Metropolis. Like matches in a haystack.

The kids he almost hit were staring at him. Dick gave them a smile and a wave, then fired his jumpline and flew up the side of the nearest building. As soon as he got to the top, everything seemed better. Cold blue sky around him, crowds small and quiet far below. Swing across the roofs. Find the bad guys. Disarm the bombs. Easy. He took a deep breath and pulled up a three dimensional map of the city on his glove computer. He'd never run the rooftops here, but it looked easy enough. One skyline was pretty much like another, right?

He leapt off the edge and laughed as he flipped and arced toward another building. This was what he needed. This cleared his head. He landed in a tight roll, sprang up running, and launched himself up and over the next street, delighting in the moment of free-fall before his line tightened and swung him back up to a window ledge, right at the corner of the two blocked-off streets.

Dick crouched with his back against the glass, fished out his binoculars, and scanned the crowd below. They pressed up against the police cordons, some waving little flags. At the intersection, they spilled out into the roads. This was definitely the best place to set off a bomb. Two streets worth of people and news cameras converging right here, and the president passing through the middle.

A quick glance down the street showed long dark cars gliding toward him. And on the next roof over, a flicker of motion caught his eye. That would be the president's security forces. Aiming guns at him. Why would they think Robin was—except they didn't see Robin, they saw some strange man dressed all in black. He was running out of time. He frantically focused his binoculars on the crowd again. If he could just find the bombers before the good guys decided to shoot him…

There! That bald man pushing his way to the front of the crowd, Pico from the warehouse last night. He held one hand clenched in front of him, probably holding a dead man's switch. And the president's car was almost level with him now.

Dick jumped. He was falling too fast, even with the jumpline, but at least that meant nobody could shoot him. He didn't have time to plan ahead, he just needed to make sure he got the dead man's switch. That meant he couldn't hit feet first. He released his line, flipped over, and dropped on the bomber. His hands closed over Pico's, and he had the dead man's switch before they hit the ground. They both fell badly, tangled together, and Dick's head bounced off the street and Pico's knee hit him in the stomach and knocked all the wind out of him, but he kept his hand clenched tight around the trigger.

He forced himself to his knees before he could even breathe again. Spots of colour flashed through his vision and made it hard to focus. Disarm the bomb. Dick ripped open Pico's coat with one hand, found the tangle of pipes and wire. No problem. He could take apart such a basic setup in his sleep. Just break one circuit. He found the right wire, traced it with his fingers – his vision was still swimming – and ripped it free.

Something heavy slammed into his back and forced him to the ground. Gravel pressed against his face. "Stay down!" yelled a voice in his ear, and strong hands wrenched his arms behind him. Pain shot through his right arm – he must have hurt it when he hit the pavement the first time – but he didn't let go of the dead man's switch, even though he knew he had disarmed the bomb. They were doing it all wrong, he wasn't the enemy, couldn't they see he had just saved them?

"There's another bomb!" he shouted back at the guy pinning him down. "Get the other bomb!" But he knew it was too late. The other bomber had surely seen what happened, was probably already releasing his dead man's switch.

A streak of red and blue flashed through the crowd and snatched up a woman Dick recognised from the warehouse in Gotham. In the blink of an eye Superman reached under her coat, tore away a vest of pipes and wires, and flung it upward so fast it blurred. An instant later, an explosion split the sky twenty stories above.

Dick realised the crowds around him were screaming and struggling to get away from the action. He hadn't noticed the noise until now, as the man on top of him hauled him upright. He tried to pull free, but only managed to make his arm hurt worse. Well, everything was going just perfectly today, wasn't it?

"Robin?" said Superman's voice behind him, sounding startled.

He turned his head and grinned. "Hey, Supes, nice morning for catching terrorists."

"Let him go," Superman said.

The big heavy hands released him, and he stumbled a couple steps before regaining his balance. Ow. He was going to be one giant bruise later. And his right elbow really hurt. And so did the side of his head. And Superman had to finish his mission and bail him out. Definitely not feeling much aster here.

"That doesn't look like Robin," said the guy who had grabbed him. He had a harsh buzz cut and a suspicious frown and a sub-machinegun slung over his shoulder. "Doesn't that kid wear all red, with a cape and stuff? And live in Gotham City?"

Superman laid a hand on Dick's shoulder. "Thank you for your caution, soldier. But Robin is with me today."

"Well, all right, then."

"You've done an admirable job here." Superman nodded toward the two bombers, already being marched away. "Keep up the good work."

"Uh, yes, sir."

Dick hid a smirk. Amazing, how Clark could always make people feel good, and somehow do it with words that would sound cheesy coming from anyone else's mouth.

"Robin, let's go."

Before he could say anything, big hands grabbed him under the arms and they were flying. First he felt like a little kid or a puppy, dangling there; no wonder Batman hated letting Superman carry him. But that thought only lasted a second before the wind swept it away. Metropolis flashed past hundreds of feet below him, glittering in the sunlight, cleaner and brighter than Gotham ever could be, and the crisp fall air made his eyes water. He laughed, spread his arms wide like wings, and streamlined his body and legs. He could hardly feel the hands holding him; he could almost think he was soaring on his own. Now if only he had his cape whipping behind him!

The flight ended far too soon. They descended to the highest balcony of an apartment building and landed in a swirl of red cape. Superman set him gently on his feet, and he staggered and grabbed the railing, as if he didn't already look incompetent enough.

Concern washed across Superman's face. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." Dick smiled. "Thanks for the flight. It was incredible."

Clark looked over him and frowned. "You're as bad as Bruce. Pulled muscles in your leg, sprained elbow, a nice goose egg on your head, and you say you're fine?" He slid open the balcony door and pointed inside. "Sit on the couch while I get my first aid kit."

"I'm _fine_," Dick muttered. "I know my limits." And if Clark always played mother hen like this, it was no wonder Bruce had a version of his costume with lead lining.

Superman made a face. "Given who trained you, I doubt you believe in limits."

He was still pointing through the door, and who could disobey Superman, especially when his eyes got all big and concerned like that? Dick stepped inside and sank onto the couch. It did feel good to slump there in the fat blue cushions that squashed under his weight and tried to swallow him into their soft depths. He was tired. How long had he been awake? He couldn't seem to count right now. More than twenty-four hours, at any rate. He leaned back and shut his eyes, just for a minute.


	4. Chapter 4

_Metropolis._

_October 4. 19:13._

The scents of coffee, bacon, eggs, and toast drifted through Dick's awareness. Didn't smell like the fancy flavoured coffee Alfred always brewed. And he wasn't in his bed. He went from barely awake to crouching in a fighting stance in a half second, and instantly felt silly as a room-temperature ice pack slid off his head and a blanket tumbled off his lap and he remembered where he was. He dropped his hands to his sides and winced as his elbow twinged. His entire body was stiff and sore now, especially his left calf. Clark said he'd pulled muscles. It sure felt like it.

He limped into the kitchen and found Clark wearing a rumpled button-up shirt and those silly oversized glasses, frying bacon and eggs together in the same pan, and humming tunelessly. "Welcome back to the land of the living," he said without looking up. "When was the last time you got a full eight hours of sleep?"

"I don't know." Dick yawned and sat down at the little table. "Six is usually plenty." Eight hours. He'd lost the entire day. "Why'd you let me sleep so long?"

Clark gave him the kind of look he normally associated with Alfred. "You needed it. Figured everything else could wait. Besides, I had to get back to work before anyone noticed I was gone. Here, eat up." He slid a plate in front of Dick, heaped with a broken up mixture of eggs and bacon and a sloppily buttered slab of toast perched on top. A second later, a steaming mug of coffee joined it.

"Thanks." Dick's stomach snarled, and he realised he hadn't eaten since a snack before patrol last night. He took a big bite of toast.

"Think you can do that left-handed?" Clark sat beside him and brandished an elastic bandage. "I want to look at your arm."

"I'm fine," he insisted. "It hurts less already."

"How about if I put it this way: what do you think Batman will do to me if I don't take proper care of you?"

Dick smirked at that image and switched the toast to his left hand.

Clark set aside his spectacles and gently lifted Dick's arm, stared at it for a few seconds, then smiled. "It's a very mild sprain." He started twisting the bandage carefully around his elbow. "Just keep it wrapped for a few days and—"

"Yeah, I know the drill," mumbled Dick through a mouthful of bacon.

Clark smiled. "I guess so. You probably know a lot more first aid than I do."

He nodded. Alfred and Leslie had trained him. "I could certify as a paramedic if I were old enough."

"Impressive." Clark pinned the end of the bandage in place.

Silence fell for a moment. Dick reclaimed his right hand and kept eating. Somehow the plain mess of eggs and meat tasted just as good as Alfred's fancy cooking.

"So," said Clark after a while, "what brings Robin to Metropolis?"

His hands tightened around his coffee mug. "I'm not…" he started, and trailed off. "Those bombers came from Gotham," he said. "Batman told me to follow them. Not that you needed my help."

Clark reached for the egg pan and dumped the rest of the food onto his own plate. "I can only move so fast. One of the bombs probably would have detonated at street level if I had to find them both on my own. You saved lives today."

"Yeah."

Clark sighed. "Dick, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" He tried to imitate Batman's flat, unreadable gaze, and failed miserably, even with the mask hiding his eyes. He tried laughing instead, since that usually worked better for him. Not this time.

"You show up in Metropolis without Batman, without the Team, and without your uniform. And Bruce isn't answering my calls."

Dick hunched his shoulders. "I'm just—I can't—I'm not—" He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not Robin any more." His voice came out so quietly he could hardly hear it. But Superman could, of course.

"What?" Clark jumped up and his hands thumped flat on the table. "What happened? He didn't…I mean, I know he can be harsh, but—"

"No!" Dick shrugged and ducked his head lower over his plate. "No, I…I don't know." He swallowed hard, blinked fiercely. He was too old to cry. He drew long, slow breaths, trying to master his emotions, stay calm. It wasn't working. "I don't know what happened," he mumbled. "I was sloppy and distracted and he was disappointed with me. Then he told me I had to pick him or the Team, so I—I picked the Team, and I told him I was tired of everyone thinking Robin was just a kid, so he told me I wasn't Robin any more, so I pulled off my tunic and cape and drove away."

Clark blurred across the room and snatched up a rumple of blue cloth from a drying rack in the corner. "I'm going to Gotham."

"No, Clark, he's not…don't get mad at him." Dick jumped after him and grabbed the costume. "He's right, nobody's ever going to take me seriously as Robin. It's not like he kicked me out or something. We…agreed. It just happened so fast, I didn't have time to process, but…this is what I want. I think. I just need some time to think, I can't go back to Gotham until…" Until what?

"You know," said Clark slowly, "there's a place I go when I need space, when I need to get away from people and think in peace. I bet you'd like it there."

Dick's eyes widened. "You're taking me to the Fortress of Solitude? It's all the way up in the Arctic Circle, right?"

"How did you—?"

He grinned. "It's not a very well-kept secret."

"Not from nosy bats, anyway." Clark smiled back, a little ruefully. "You'll need something warmer to wear. Here, I think I've got something." He strode back into the living room, opened a closet, and dug out a blue coat. "This has been in my closet for months. I have no idea where it came from. It looks about your size, though."

Dick shrugged into the thick coat. A decent fit, though much bulkier than anything he usually wore. He found his gloves on the coffee table beside the couch and pulled them on.

"Ready?" Clark called from the balcony. He had already changed into his sleek costume and combed the obligatory curl of hair down onto his forehead. "For a longer flight, you'd probably be more comfortable on my back. Um, that is, if you don't mind."

The hesitation made Dick smirk. "You suggested that to Batman, didn't you?"

Superman made a face. "Sometimes I think _he's_ the one who can burn holes in things by looking at them."

"Well, I haven't learned that trick yet." Dick followed him outside and slid the door shut behind him. He did feel a little awkward at the idea of riding piggy-back on Superman, but it wouldn't be the first time. Just the first time since he was twelve. He jumped up and got a good grip, and whooped as the speed of their take-off nearly left him behind. The evening air tasted sweet and cold and the wind rushed in his ears and the part of Superman's cape that he wasn't sitting on snapped and fluttered behind him. This was the way to travel!


	5. Chapter 5

Credit goes to Scott Beatty and Chuck Dixon for writing the lines I borrowed from _Nightwing #102_. Also, I drew a picture to accompany this chapter, which you may find by looking for heimeldat on deviantart (I'd give you a link if it would let me).

_Fortress of Solitude._

_October 4. 21:53._

Here, the darkness was blue. Dick didn't expect that. In Gotham, the streets glittered red and gold and the night sky glowed with dirty yellow reflection. But the fields of ice below him now shone pale blue in the moonlight, dimmer than Gotham but with fewer shadows. It was beautiful.

He pushed himself up to kneel on Superman's back, and instantly the wind shear doubled, battering against him, trying to rip him away into the bright blue blackness. He tightened his grip with his legs. Then slowly, carefully, he let go and spread his arms. It took all his strength to stay upright instead of falling backwards. The wind burned his face, and the cold air tasted sharp in his throat, and he felt incredibly alive.

"Dick, what are you doing?" shouted Superman over the wind of his own speed. "Be careful, you'll fall off!"

He grinned and relaxed into the wind, let it grab him and wrench him backwards. Then he was falling, slicing through the air. Somewhere above he heard Clark shout his name. He laughed and flipped into a somersault, twisted over and streamlined his body into a dive, then spread his arms and soared until Superman's hands caught under his arms again.

"What were you thinking?" Clark yelled down at him. "That was incredibly reckless!"

"Stay turbed! I knew you'd catch me," he replied, still laughing and panting with the joy and the adrenaline rush of free-fall. The icy air ached deep in his lungs. He stretched out his arms again. "Falling's half the fun of flying."

The laugh died on his lips as they came over a hill. For the first time he felt cold, deep cold biting into him and twisting in his belly. This place was real. "Land," he said.

"What?"

"Put me down!"

They angled downward and Dick wrenched free ten feet above the ground, hit the snow rolling and came up running. Maybe he was wrong. The contours of the ice had changed in three years. But he knew he wasn't wrong. He had been standing right here when the nightmare started. He shuddered.

"Dick?"

"That's why they sent a scout here," he said, more to himself than to Clark. "Your Fortress must have a power source strong enough to detect from space."

"Well, yes, but it's shielded against all known sensors. Wait, who sent a scout here?"

"Nobody, I'm sorry." He was acting stupid. He sucked in a deep breath, but the chill air didn't make him feel more alive this time, it just hurt his chest. "I've been here before, in a simulation," he said quietly. "Artemis died here. We thought it was real." The memory _was_ real, as real as his memory of his parents' death. Part of him still grieved for Artemis and the whole Team even though he knew they never died.

He was shivering now. He wrapped his arms around himself. "Let's go inside."

Clark picked him up once more. They glided over a final hill, and Dick's breath caught at the sight of the huge crystals thrusting up in rows like tilted pillars, crossing each other three storeys in the air and ending in jagged points, the whole thing gleaming silver in the dark.

A tall door at the end of the building slid silently open at Superman's touch, and they floated into a vast dim room, cool but not cold, glowing with pale blue light like the snow outside. In the centre stood a statue of sparkling multi-coloured crystal, in the shape of a robed man and woman upholding a globe. At the far end, on a dais, a translucent pillar rose from floor to ceiling, surrounded by angled panels that flickered with light. Dick grinned, the shock of revisiting Artemis's death-place fading at the sight of that flashing column. He knew a computer when he saw one, alien or not.

Superman set him down at the side of the room, halfway between the statue and the computer, and he saw that some of the spaces between the huge support crystals contained doors. One of them slid open at their approach, and warm air washed over Dick. He realised how cold he was. His fingers felt stiff and numb despite the insulating fibres woven through his gloves, and his teeth were chattering.

He stepped into an ordinary sort of kitchen, if ordinary people had tables and chairs and counters of silvery crystal. "Nice," he said. The warmth in here seeped into him faster than he would have thought possible. Already he wasn't shivering so hard.

"Tea?" asked Superman, reaching up into a cupboard.

"Kryptonian tea?"

Clark raised an eyebrow. "Only if Earl Grey was from Krypton." He tossed teabags into a couple of mugs, filled them at the sink, and stared down into them. Dick caught only the faintest red glow in his eyes, but a few seconds later the water started steaming.

They sat in silence for a while. Dick sipped his tea black and bitter and almost too hot to bear, with the tea bag still floating and bumping against his lip. Clark sat across from him and frowned at a newspaper and kept adding more sugar to his mug.

"Did I make the right choice?" asked Dick at last.

Superman laid down the paper. "You told me you were tired of everyone thinking of you as a kid. You chose to be a man."

Dick dragged a drop of tea across the table with his finger. "When you say it that way, it sounds obvious. But…I dedicated my life to being Robin."

"Did you?"

He opened his mouth, then stopped. He didn't, did he? He dedicated his life to fighting evil. But even so, Robin was more than a name. "I'm his…his heir," he said into his tea. "I guess I always thought that someday Robin would…"

"Would become Batman."

"I only ever told Black Canary that." He shuddered. That was after Artemis died outside the Fortress of Solitude. After Dick led his friends on a suicide mission and watched them all die at his command. He thought of what he told Canary next: "I don't want to be _the _Batman any more." If being Robin meant inheriting Batman's cape and cowl someday, then maybe that was another reason to leave Robin behind.

"But I can't just walk out on Bruce," he mumbled.

"Is that what you're doing?"

"He needs me. He actually _said _that."

"Does changing your name and spending more time with the Team mean you'll never be there when he needs you?"

"Well, no." He'd told Bruce as much. Even after he chose the Team over Gotham, he called himself Batman's lieutenant. He'd always come if Bruce needed him. He'd always be the one person who could fight perfectly beside Batman like they knew each other's thoughts. That wouldn't change just because he was growing up.

But one more worry slithered through his mind, the nagging fear that always made him push himself to do better. "What if he's disappointed that I picked the Team over him?"

"Dick. There are a lot of things I don't understand about Bruce, but one thing I know for sure is that he's not disappointed in you. He respects you, probably a lot more than he'd ever say. No matter what you do with your life, I know you'll make him proud."

Warmth rippled through him. There it was again, Superman's uncanny ability to make everything seem all right with a few words that ought to sound more corny than comforting.

Dick grinned and downed the last of his tea. "Thanks, Clark."

"So?"

"So I guess I'll need a new name."

Clark smiled back at him. "I think I might have an idea." He got up and motioned Dick to follow him back into the huge entry room. "Your crazy stunt earlier reminded me of something. The way you flew, with your arms spread and that big blue coat glowing in the dark…here, just come and look."

Waist-high glassy pedestals stood in a circle around the huge statue; Dick hadn't even noticed them on the way in. But now Superman lifted a half-sphere of blue-green crystal from one of the stands and offered it to Dick.

He turned it over in his hands and traced patterns through the crystal with his eyes. Even, repeating patterns, tiny vertical and horizontal lines in regular rows – oh. "A hard drive?" he asked. "Or some kind of storage device?"

"Think of it as a sort of Kryptonian DVD." Clark ran a finger along the edge of the device, and a glow spread through the crystal, illuminating it from inside. Threads of light shot upward and flickered into a three-dimensional image hovering over Dick's hands.

It was the image of a tall, heavy-set man dressed in black, with a bulky blue breastplate armouring his torso and wrapping over his shoulders. He wore a black helmet crowned with golden wings, and a similar golden feather pattern spread across his chest. And on his arms he wore long mechanical wings, bright blue with gold tracery outlining the shapes of feathers. As Dick watched, he dove and swooped through the air with his body streamlined and his winged arms spread to catch the wind, and he threw back his head to laugh.

Glowing characters scrolled down the image beside the man, and a female voice began to speak in a lilting language full of trills and musical sounds that no human throat could form.

"Is that Kryptonian?" breathed Dick.

"One dialect of it."

"It's beautiful." He watched, entranced, as the Kryptonian man whirled through the night sky, obviously enjoying every minute of his flight. His blue wings glowed in the dark.

"He was a hero on my homeworld, many centuries before my birth," said Clark. "He used a combination of strategic genius and technology to fight for those who couldn't fight for themselves. He became a legend, a symbol of justice across the entire planet."

A Kryptonian Batman. Dick touched his hand to the projection. The wings rippled and reformed around his fingers. "What was his name?"

"No one knew his real name. They called him Nightwing. Well, that's just a rough translation, of course."

"Nightwing." Dick grinned up at Superman. "I like it. And he kind of reminds me of something, too. At one point back at Haly's Circus, we wore leotards with bird shapes on the chests. Flying Graysons need wings, right?" He looked back down at the hologram. "How much footage is there?"

"A couple hours. It's the story of one of his greatest victories."

"You up for a movie night?"

Clark smiled. "I've got some popcorn in the kitchen."

Dick followed him back into the warmth, still watching as the ancient hero angled down toward the crystal towers of a city. But now he saw himself, gliding over Gotham. Dick Grayson, Nightwing. He liked the sound of that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_Fortress of Solitude._

_October 5. 10:47._

Dick opened his eyes and found himself slumped over Clark's crystal table with his cheek stuck to a sheet of paper. He straightened up and rubbed his hands across his face. He wasn't wearing his mask. Right, he had taken it off at some point last night. Or early this morning. It lay on the other end of the table with his gloves and shirt. The remnants of the bulky blue coat sprawled on the floor along with at least a dozen crumpled bits of paper.

He reached for one of his gloves and looked at its built-in clock. Great, almost eleven. He knew better than to let his sleep schedule get this skewed. He might have trouble readjusting to his usual hours of sleep between one and seven in the morning. But he figured it was worth it this time.

They had spent far more than two hours watching the Nightwing hologram, since he made Clark pause every few minutes to translate whatever dialogue he couldn't figure out from the context. And then he asked for paper and pencil, and while Clark vanished into another room to sleep, Dick sketched design after design. He never was much of an artist, but finally he got it right. And then, on an impulse, he cut a bird shape from the blue coat's lining and glued it to his shirt with spirit gum. It wouldn't stick permanently, but that wasn't the point.

He pulled on his shirt and traced a finger around the edge of the blue insignia. With its wings spread across his chest, he felt ready for anything, the same way he used to feel when he first started wearing the Robin costume.

Dick scooped his designs together into a pile, and found an extra page on the edge of the table, a quick scrawl in Clark's handwriting. "Gone to work. Back soon. Food in fridge." Today was Saturday; he had probably gone to the Watchtower or off on some mission of his own, not to the Daily Planet.

Well, Dick shouldn't have trouble finding something to do. He opened the kitchen's identical silvery cupboards until he found one that wafted cold air. Inside, a jug of milk, a bagel, and a plate of plastic-wrapped pizza. He set it all on the table and slipped his gloves back on so he could catch up on the news while he ate.

The wrist computer blinked to life and told him he had no internet signal. Well, he was in the middle of the Arctic Circle. Even Batman's tech had its limits. There were probably no satellites in range. Or maybe the Fortress of Solitude was blocking his satellite access.

But it wouldn't block its own systems.

Dick grinned. He'd been hoping for an excuse to play with an alien computer. He scooped up his food and padded out into the main room. The cooler air made him shiver. Maybe he could do a few routines to warm up. Although his leg and elbow hurt still. He'd probably make them worse if he tried any gymnastics. So he settled for running back to the kitchen and pulling the cut-up coat on again. He stuffed his costume designs and mask in the pocket, then returned to the computer and started examining it while munching cold pizza.

Streams of light flickered through the depths of the crystals. The whole thing was translucent, and when Dick looked closely he could see the patterns of vertical and horizontal shapes, tiny regular variations in the grain of the crystal lattice. Only two angles, so if those marks were what he thought, the system worked on base two. Which meant he could get in without any mathematical gymnastics.

He activated his glove's screen and checked for local networks. Sure enough, Clark's computer had limited networking capability. Now to convince it that his wrist computer was allowed to tap in.

For a while the Kryptonian programming language baffled him. But it had its patterns just like every other language Dick knew, and eventually it started making some sense. He picked his way through carefully, taking his time. After a while he realised he was grinning so widely his cheeks were starting to hurt. He hadn't encountered such a challenge since he hacked the Justice League network when he was ten. But this wasn't just a new system, it was a whole new kind of system, built on a different idea of how computers should work.

He lost track of time, creeping through firewalls that didn't even look like firewalls, dodging strange traps at the last nanosecond. But finally, his wrist screen flashed green.

"Access granted," said the computer's lilting voice. "Welcome, Kal-El."

Dick grinned but stifled his urge to laugh. He was so close; he couldn't let the computer lock him out because it heard the wrong voice. He slid his hands across the crystal panels, somewhat surprised at how user-friendly the interface was now that he was in the system. The coding was alien, but the surface acted like any other computer. It took all of two seconds to deactivate the voice recognition routines.

"Access secure internet connection," Dick ordered.

"Accessing."

He glanced at the clock in his glove, then looked again to make sure. Wow. It was past four in the afternoon. Now he probably wouldn't get to play with the computer much before Clark returned. Still, five hours to learn and access an alien system wasn't bad.

Dick pulled up a news feed. Holographic lines sparkled across the central column. He couldn't tell if the image was forming within the crystal or on its surface. Glints of light flowed together and formed his own masked face looking back at him from an inset beside the reporter's head.

"…told the police everything about their half-baked terrorist cell, today's big question is: who was the masked man working with Superman yesterday?" The screen flashed to a photo of Superman standing beside him with a hand on his shoulder. "Nobody has been able to identify him as any known hero. Is he a newcomer? Does the Man of Steel have a sidekick? And if so, why does he wear an all-black costume? Superman and the Justice League have been unavailable for comment."

With news reports like that, Bruce definitely knew Dick was safe with Superman. No need to call the Manor. But he figured he should check in with the Team; he hadn't talked to them in over thirty-six hours, and they might be worried. He always made sure to tell them before he went off-grid on missions with Batman. He fished his sunglasses out of his belt and slipped them on.

"Connect to JLA com network," he said.

"Justice League communication satellite uplink complete," the computer announced.

"Contact Mount Justice."

"Audio-video link enabled. Connecting."

Light flickered through the crystal column again, and the image morphed into a familiar green face framed with short red hair.

"Cave here!" she said brightly. "Oh! Robin!"

"Hi, M'gann."

Aqualad walked into view, now with a square of gauze taped to his head and his arm in a sling. "Robin, it is good to hear from you. When Batman debriefed us yesterday morning, he refused to tell us where you were."

Dick ducked his head. "I'm sorry I wasn't with you at Benechem. I could have—"

"Do not apologise." Kaldur held up a hand. "We have all seen the news. Your mission in Metropolis was more important."

"You knew that was me?"

Rocket stuck her head into the camera's view, sporting a black eye. "You jumped off a building onto a terrorist and disarmed his bomb in about one second flat. 'Course we knew it was you. And what was with the black getup? Which totally worked for you, by the way."

Dick smirked. "Maybe I'll keep it." He fully intended to.

"Wait, why are you using a Justice League signal?" asked M'gann suddenly. Her eyes went huge and she clapped her hands over her mouth. "Are you joining the League?"

"No, don't worry." He smiled reassuringly at her. "I'm more committed to the Team than ever. I'm just…working some things out. I'll be back soon and—" He broke off, listening. A soft sound echoed through the crystal halls. "Uh, sorry, M'gann, got to go." He swept a finger across the control panel and the image dissolved.

"Dick?"

No time to shut down the computer. Oh, well. He turned around and waved, pulling off his sunglasses. "Hi, Clark. Long day?"

Superman glided into the room, smudged with dirt, the tatters of his cape fluttering behind him. He landed and stretched his arms. "Yeah, pretty bad." He gave Dick a mildly disapproving look. "What are you doing with my computer?"

Coming from Superman, mild disapproval hurt as much as Batman's glare. Dick shrugged and tried not to let it look sheepish. "JLA com-sat link. Do you know how hard it is to get a radio signal in the arctic circle?" He tapped a finger against his useless earpiece.

Clark walked over and gave the computer a long look, as if he could see Dick's conversation with M'gann and Kaldur lingering in the crystal. Maybe he could. "How did you get access?" he said after a minute.

"Genius, remember? I rewrote the League's whole security system. When I was ten."

Clark gave him a sidelong look. "This system's coded to my DNA."

Dick just smirked.

Clark sighed and shook his head. "Never mind, I don't want to know." He tugged the remnants of his cape off his shoulders and balled up the shreds. "But if you're bored enough to start hacking my computers, it's probably time for you to get back to work, Nightwing."

"Yeah, probably." He found himself smiling at Clark's words. Nightwing. Superman called him Nightwing, and coming from him it sounded more right than ever.

"Do you mind using the zeta tube this time? I've got, um…" Clark blushed and looked away. "You know." He turned and started walking quickly toward a door on the opposite side of the Fortress from the kitchen.

"A date?" Dick grinned and ran through the door after him. "A hot date?" he sang.

Clark bent busily over the zeta tube's control panel. "Yes."

Dick laughed. "Tell Lois your mysterious sidekick says hello."

"What?"

"Clearly you haven't watched the news today."

"Busy day." Clark slid his fingers across the zeta controls. "Do you want to go straight back to Gotham or stop in Metropolis? The Metro Police impounded your motorcycle."

Oh, just wonderful. He made a face. "I'll get the bike." He pulled out his bottle of spirit gum and stuck his mask back on.

"All right, set for Metropolis." Superman paused, frowning. "Are you even old enough to have a driver's license?"

"You've sent me a birthday card every year and you don't know how old I am?" Dick laughed again, then impulsively caught Superman in a hug. "Thanks, Clark. For everything."

"Any time, Nightwing." Clark ruffled his hair. "Now, get back to Gotham before Bruce starts worrying too much."

"I'm sure Bruce knows where I've been."

"I'm sure. He'll still worry."

"Yeah." Dick gave Superman a final smile and wave, then stepped into the zeta tube. The blue-gold flash of light washed away the world and the computerised voice said for the last time, "Recognised: Robin, B01."

He'd have to update that when he got home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_Gotham City._

_October 5. 22:50._

Dick's motorcycle roared to a stop in its usual place. The echo of its engine bounced around the cave for a few seconds after he turned it off, and then silence fell. Batman wasn't here. Of course he wasn't; he would be somewhere in the warehouse district by now, assuming he hadn't run into too much trouble in the first half of his patrol sweep.

So why did Dick feel surprised and disappointed that Bruce wasn't here to meet him?

He pulled the folded costume sketches out of his pocket, then sighed and tossed the cut-up coat across the motorcycle as he walked away. One hand rose to his chest to trace the fraying edges of the bird, while the other crunched the sheets of paper into a tight cylinder.

"Welcome home, Master Dick," said Alfred from the direction of the stairs. "I trust these past two days have been fruitful?"

"I think so."

Alfred crossed to the parking area, picked up the ruined coat, and shook out its rumples. "Are you uncertain?"

Dick perched on the pommel horse in the gym area and smoothed out his sketches across his knees. A few hours ago, talking to Superman, he had been excited, eager to come back and tell Bruce his new identity. Now he felt like he had a rock in his stomach. Bruce was the one who told him to leave Robin behind, but what if he'd changed his mind? What if he really wasn't all right with it? What if…?

Alfred's hands closed around his, and Dick's head jerked up. All these years of training, and he still couldn't hear the butler's footsteps.

"I see you have found a new insignia," said Alfred softly. "Upon sable, an eagle displayed azure. A fitting device, though it breaks the rule of tincture."

Dick squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't understand most of what you just said, but thanks." He swallowed. "I'm still not sure this is right."

"What do you fear?" asked Alfred.

"I don't know." This was ridiculous. Everything had seemed so simple and good when he finished talking to Clark. What happened to that clarity? Maybe he should have come straight back by zeta tube. He clenched his fists under Alfred's fingers and felt paper crumple again. "I still don't know what Bruce thinks about all this," he said. "He told me I was right about all the things I said. He told me I should pick a new name. But then he went straight back to the mission like nothing had changed, and he wouldn't look at me, and I don't know if he's upset or angry or…or…"

"You have nothing to fear," said Alfred. "Master Bruce may show few emotions, but you know as well as I that he loves you dearly. Now, why don't you hand me those designs before you tear them to shreds."

Dick looked down and realised his fingers were digging holes into the paper. He forced his fists to relax, and his sketches slid into Alfred's hand.

"Let's see, then," said Alfred, moving to prop himself stiffly against the pommel horse beside Dick. He nodded as he leafed through the battered pages. "We have no shortage of reinforced clothing and armour in your size; I should have little difficulty assembling the necessary pieces." He gave Dick a sly hint of smile. "And I expect you shall look quite dashing all in black."

"Um."

"Though naturally, you thought nothing of the sort as you designed the costume."

Dick shrugged noncommittally but couldn't quite keep a smirk off his lips. Flattering colour choice certainly wasn't at the front of his mind, but he remembered Rocket's comment from earlier.

The squeal of tires jerked him to his feet. Batman was home early.

Alfred pressed his sketches back into his hands and gave him a gentle shove. "Go on."

Batman emerged from the car in a swirl of cape and pulled back his cowl. He looked at Dick for several long seconds, then nodded. "I saw the news. Good job in Metropolis."

The knot in Dick's stomach started melting. "Thanks," he said quietly.

"That Clark's work?" Bruce's eyes flicked toward the bandage around Dick's elbow.

"Yeah. Mild sprain. I'm fine."

Bruce nodded.

After a few seconds of silence, Dick worked up the courage to speak again. "And…and what do you think of the new costume?" He held out his crumpled drawings.

Bruce took the papers and studied them carefully. "Nightwing," he read aloud the name scribbled across the first page. His voice was neutral, just taking note, not passing judgment.

Dick held his breath. If Bruce didn't like it, if he didn't really want Dick to stop being Robin, if he was angry that Dick put the Team first…

"Solid design," said Bruce at last. "It suits you. We should have all the necessary components." He started walking toward the storage room. "I'll custom order anything you're not satisfied with."

Dick's heart leapt. "You really like it?" A grin bounced onto his face and he ran across the cave after Bruce.

"One question." Bruce looked back over his shoulder as he opened one of the armour cases. "You don't want a cape?"

"It never really had a purpose in the Robin costume." Dick shrugged. "I might even move more easily without it."

Bruce nodded, lifted out a suit of flexible black and grey armour, and held it up to check the size. "Try this. It's a little heavier than your usual uniform."

It was notably heavier; Dick's arm dropped a little under the weight as he took it. He stripped off the crudely altered remnants of the Robin costume and started pulling on the armour. It felt like the Kevlar-woven material of his old uniform, but thicker and stronger, like Batman's suit.

"You know you didn't need to go to Clark," said Bruce softly from behind him.

Dick bit his lip and kept working on the armour's fastenings, unsure how to answer. After a moment he said, "Yes, I did. You weren't talking."

Bruce was silent.

"You went right back to the mission like nothing happened," Dick pressed on. "I didn't know what to think." He adjusted the armour's shoulder guards even though they already fit fine. He didn't dare turn around for fear of what he might see on Bruce's face. "You said you agreed with me but you acted like you didn't want to talk about it. Didn't want to talk to me. So I talked to Clark instead."

Bruce set his hands on Dick's shoulders, then pulled him around into a hug. The edges of his gauntlets pressed into Dick's back. Dick let his cheek rest against the bat symbol and wrapped his arms tight around Bruce so the heavy black cape fell down over both of them. "I thought…I thought maybe you weren't sure about letting me choose the Team," he mumbled into Bruce's chest. "Or you were angry or upset or disappointed or—"

"Never," Bruce whispered. "I'm proud of you, Nightwing."

Nightwing smiled and hugged his father tighter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_Gotham City_

_October 6. 12:32._

"It's not centred," said Bruce. "Move it to your left."

Dick inched his fingers sideways across the chest of his new suit. "How's that?"

"Good."

He let the upper edge of the adhesive stencil touch the armour's surface, then carefully slid his hands out so the whole thing fell into place. "There." Dick pressed it against the armour until he could feel the reinforced cloth's rough texture through the stencil.

As Dick stepped back, Bruce flung an old painter's cloth over the entire manikin and tugged at an edge until the ragged hole in the middle of the sheet lined up over the bird shape. Together they taped it into place.

"Is this how you made your first costume?" asked Dick. He picked at a streak of black fabric paint on the grubby sheet. It was hard to imagine Batman sitting in an empty cave cobbling together a uniform and stencilling the bat symbol onto his chest.

"It was awful," Bruce replied, and handed Dick an airbrush can filled with a special fabric paint designed to bond into the dense Kevlar-Nomex weave he used for their uniforms. "Looked like a Halloween costume."

Dick smirked at the image of Bruce wearing one of the Batman outfits sold at the low-end costume shop downtown. A floppy-eared cowl with Velcro fasteners, a utility belt made of felt, a flimsy cape tied with a string.

"What's so funny?"

Dick laughed and adjusted the airbrush nozzle for a wide spray. "Nothing." No way Batman's first suit was _that _bad, but the image was priceless. Photoshop waiting to happen. Still grinning, Dick swept the airbrush back and forth, and an even layer of bright blue spread across the stencilled area.

"I've brought a light meal, sirs," said Alfred's voice behind them.

Dick filled the last corner of the bird shape and tossed the airbrush aside, suddenly ravenous. "Awesome!" He accepted a sandwich from the butler's tray and took a huge bite. "Mm, fanksh, Owfed."

Alfred fixed him with a glare worthy of Batman. "Mind your manners, Master Dick."

"Forry," he mumbled with his mouth still full.

"Hm." Alfred set down the tray and opened a bag hanging from the crook of his arm. "I have the items you requested, sir," he told Bruce.

"Excellent." Bruce pulled out a lumpy black bundle and tossed it at Dick.

He caught it by reflex and let it unfold in his hand. It was a brand new black utility belt, complete with an attached thigh holster for his escrima sticks. "Oh, sweet!" He grinned and vaulted over the nearest table to grab his yellow belt from its rack. Batman had made him practice filling and emptying the pouches hundreds of times; his hands moved fast, without thought, transferring the 'rangs, smoke pellets, explosives, lock picks, spare decel line, spirit gum, and all the useful scraps and tricks gathered over the years. He released the jury-rigged loops he'd been using to hold his escrima sticks to the back of his belt lately and slid the two short rods into their new holder. They clicked into place, secure enough that they wouldn't fall out no matter how many times he flipped upside-down.

"Very sweet," he said as he clasped the belt around his waist and the holster's bottom strap around his right leg. The extra weight on one side felt a little strange, but not enough to throw him off balance. He threw a few kicks and flipped into a cartwheel to test how the holster moved on his leg. Smooth, not hard to work with at all. Although the cartwheel sent a flicker of pain through his elbow; he'd forgotten about that.

"Here." Bruce's hand shot forward again, and Dick bounced back to his feet just in time to snatch the black shape out of the air.

A new mask. He hadn't even thought to redesign the mask. He held it to his face. It wasn't that different, but the bottom edges swept down to sharp points along his cheeks like the top corners did on his forehead. Dick's grin spread a little wider. "Nice," he said.

"Finish your sandwich and we'll spar," said Bruce. He touched the edge of the Nightwing insignia lightly, and his finger came away clean. "It's dry enough to wear."

Dick grabbed the sandwich and tried to shove half of it in his mouth at once, but Alfred cleared his throat disapprovingly. Right. Staying nonchalant. He wasn't nine any more, and this was just a new piece of clothing. He took a smaller bite and even remembered to chew.

Alfred hovered nearby until they had both finished eating, then whisked away all evidence of the meal and vanished up the stairs.

Dick gave Bruce an eager glance, then realised he probably looked like a puppy. Way too chalant. He leaned back against the edge of the table and turned his mask over between his fingers. Its sweeping edges reminded him of the bat symbol's shape.

From the corner of his eye he saw a smirk touch the corner of Bruce's mouth. "All right," said Bruce, and ripped the sheet away from Nightwing's armour. "Get dressed."

As Bruce strode toward his costume case at the other side of the room, Dick dug his fingernails under the edge of the adhesive stencil and peeled it back. It stuck to itself and crinkled into a blue-stained knot, leaving behind a perfect sharp-edged bird shape.

Dick changed into costume in record time and ran to the wide sparring area in the centre of the cave before Bruce even had his cape fastened. He jogged around the edge of the open space, did a few quick stretches, bent over backwards into a bridge and from there kicked his feet up into a handstand and over sideways into a quick series of cartwheels. Every time he landed on his hands his elbow twinged, but he ignored it. He'd trained with worse sprains. And this was definitely worth it. The new armour shaped itself to his body and moved with him as fluidly as his old uniform; he barely noticed the extra weight. If anything, he felt lighter without the swish and pull of his cape whipping through the air.

He turned the last somersault into a leap and flip, drew his escrima sticks as he rolled in mid-air, and landed in a ready crouch at the centre of the sparring circle, grinning. It had been a long time since he felt so _cool_ in costume.

Batman joined him, a pair of short rods dangling from one hand. He nodded at Nightwing and shifted to a standard escrima stance, knees slightly flexed, arms bent close to his body so one stick rested across each shoulder.

Dick attacked fast and loose, sweeping his sticks up and around in quick circular strikes. He danced and darted around Batman, aiming low, then high, sometimes both at once, but Bruce parried every blow.

There were no rules in these sparring matches; Dick had learned that the hard way. He anticipated a non-escrima move and leapt back and sideways as Bruce threw a kick at him. "Saw that coming," he laughed, and found himself slammed against the floor as the follow-up strike he didn't see coming knocked his feet out from under him. But he turned the fall into a roll and from there whirled straight into a capoeira kick, both hands on the ground while his foot arced up toward Bruce's crotch.

Bruce wasn't there. He barrelled forward with a forceful jab at Nightwing's throat, forcing him to bend backward. All right, he could work with that. He kept going backwards and his feet snapped up and caught Bruce a glancing blow to the side of the shoulder as Dick flipped up and over and back onto his feet.

Batman was off balance now, for an instant. Long enough to take the advantage. Nightwing pressed forward with another rapid sequence of escrima strikes and drove his mentor back a few steps, then suddenly changed tack and grabbed Bruce's arm. He didn't get a solid grip, but he didn't need to. He just needed enough purchase to help propel him past Batman fast enough that the huge cape's inertia left it swirling through the air in front of him where he could catch a fistful of the cloth.

Dick let out the cackle that irritated so many people, jumped and landed his hands on Batman's back, vaulted up and over with the cape still bunched in one fist. But he wasn't fast enough. He felt Bruce's shoulders turning under his hands as he started his vault, felt the wind of the strike coming as he flipped down in front of Batman. His move worked; he jerked the cape down hard over Bruce's head and pulled him off balance again, but Batman elbowed him in the ribs and kicked him behind the knee as he landed, and they both fell.

Nightwing hit the ground first, with Bruce's shin pushing down across his stomach. The spikes on Batman's gauntlet pressed against his throat and the escrima stick in that hand rested against the pressure point behind his ear.

"Yield?" growled Batman.

Dick tried to twist into a ground-fighting position, but the stick jabbed lightly at the angle of his jaw and sent a painful tingle through his neck. He fell still. "I yield."

"You still telegraph downward strikes with the left hand," said Bruce as he rose. "And grabbing my cape was ineffective and obvious."

"It knocked you down fine," Dick said. He scrambled to his feet and clicked his escrima sticks into their holder. "I just wasn't quick enough to get clear." He rubbed below his jaw where the gauntlet spikes had left indents in his skin.

"Hm." Bruce pulled back his cowl. "Any problems with the suit?"

"No, it's perfect." Dick grinned and looked down at himself. The blue-black armour clung to him, outlined his muscles, rippled with every motion. It made him feel stronger, more competent, ready to face anything. Just a little bit bad-ass. Definitely not a kid.

"Don't get cocky," said Bruce. "You're not invulnerable."

"I know." He rubbed at his elbow, which was throbbing now.

Bruce raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. He walked across the cave and returned his escrima sticks to the weapon rack in the corner, then pulled off his cape and vanished around the corner toward the storage room.

Dick stayed in the sparring area and kept moving, running through a few kata, getting used to the soft rasp of the flexible armour against his skin. He pushed himself a little, worked up enough sweat to wash away the last few whispers of uncertainty. Things kept happening so quickly. But that meant Bruce really thought he was ready; he didn't feel the need to hold Dick back. Dick came back to the manor barely more than twelve hours ago, and already he had a new costume, fresh strength and confidence, and more delight in his job than he'd felt in months.

He just needed one more thing.

Dick crossed to the zeta tube at the side of the cave and stood in scanning range. The mechanical voice began, "Recognised—"

"Update recognition program: Nightwing, B01."

The machine beeped. "Updated."

Dick grinned. Nightwing was ready to fly.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Gotham City._

_October 6. 20:04._

Two polite raps echoed through Dick's bedroom door.

"Hey, Alfred," he grunted, without getting off his suitcase. He jammed his knee harder against the bulging case and managed to slide the zipper a few inches.

The door opened behind him. "May I suggest a second bag, Master Dick?"

"I guess." He stood up, and a tangle of clothes spewed out of the suitcase.

"Or perhaps folding your clothing may help." Alfred swept the entire mess up onto Dick's bed and began folding shirts. "Are you leaving the manor?"

"Sort of." Dick picked up a rumpled jacket and fiddled with the buttons. "I'll be spending more time at the Cave. Probably staying there a lot of nights. Especially if…" He stopped the rest of the words from spilling out. If he became Team commander. If he was ready to take Kaldur's place. Three years ago he wanted to lead. But now every time he imagined himself in charge, he remembered sending his friends to their deaths. And he knew he would do it again if he had to. And that scared him.

"Master Dick?"

He realised he was still staring at the jacket. He tossed it into his closet and flashed Alfred a bright smile. "Totally turbed and ready to go, Alfie."

"Good." Alfred zipped the suitcase – somehow everything fit now – and propped it upright at the end of the bed. "We shall miss having you in the house, sir."

Dick shifted uncomfortably. "It's not like I'm leaving completely. I still go to Gotham Academy, you know. And those snobby dinner parties Bruce gets invited to."

"Of course."

A faint squeak told him Bruce was coming. He always stepped on the creaky floorboard in the hall outside Dick's room.

"Dick, do you want to…" Bruce stuck his head in and trailed off as his eyes fell on the suitcase. "Leaving?"

"Yeah." Dick glanced at his watch. "Shouldn't you be heading out soon too?" He held his breath, waiting for Bruce to ask. Come on, come on…

"That's why I came up. Want to join me for a night on the town?"

"Absolutely!" Dick grinned and leapt over the suitcase and halfway across the room in one bound. Somehow, patrolling with Batman seemed far more appealing than it did a few days ago. He'd made his decision, he was his own man now, and that made the familiar patrol an option instead of a duty. Batman wasn't pulling him away from the Team; Dick was _choosing_ to spend tonight in Gotham instead of Happy Harbour.

"Have you checked with the Team?" asked Bruce as they walked downstairs together.

"Not today." Maybe he should have. After all, the whole point of becoming Nightwing was to focus more on his duties to the Team. But with three of them injured, four if he counted his own sprained elbow, Batman hadn't given them any missions this weekend. Dick had time to do things properly. And that meant introducing Nightwing to Gotham City.

"Standard sweep?" he asked as they descended the stone steps and crossed the cave to the costume racks.

"No. I thought we'd start by dropping in on Gordon. Then we'll cut across to the docks. I got a tip last night on a drug shipment coming in by boat."

"Sounds like fun." Nightwing dabbed spirit gum on the edges of his mask and pressed it over his eyes. "Let's go find some trouble."

"Bring your motorcycle."

Dick opened his mouth to object, then stopped, mouth still open, as he glanced toward the parking area. The red and yellow bike was gone, replaced by a sleek black motorcycle with bright blue stripes gleaming along the sides and a black and blue helmet hanging from the handlebar. Dick gasped, then grinned. "Wow!" he breathed.

A hint of smile twitched the corner of Bruce's mouth as he pulled his cowl down over his eyes and strode across the cave to the car.

Nightwing dashed after Batman and jumped onto his new bike. It had no key ignition, just a little speaker. "Activate," he said, and the engine purred to life beneath him. He pulled on his helmet and heard the click of a radio turning on. A row of glowing blue icons blinked briefly and faded in his peripheral vision: a computerised visor. Sweet! Dick leaned forward and sped after Batman, and his engine's pitch shifted to a deep hum.

They flew through town; there never was much traffic on Sunday nights. Nightwing's bike responded to the lightest touch to the handlebars. After a few minutes he tried switching to autopilot. It kept moving smoothly as he let go and pushed himself up to crouch on the seat, then slowly stood up. He swayed slightly, but didn't even have to spread his arms to keep his balance. Beautiful.

Just one more thing he wanted to try. He flexed his knees, raised his hands, took a deep breath, and flipped forward, feet snapping up into the air as his hands landed on the handlebars. The bike didn't swerve or tip off balance, just lurched a little. Dick moved with it and managed to hold the handstand for a couple seconds before relaxing and dropping back onto the saddle. Nice! When he tried that once on his old bike, it tipped up on the front wheel and then crashed.

They pulled into the darkest alley behind police headquarters and together fired their grapplers and shot up the side of the building. Nightwing found his favourite perch at the corner of the roof and squatted there, looking out over the city. Storm clouds piled overhead, tinted with the sickly yellow glow of light pollution. Dick could feel the air pressure changing in promise of a night of rain.

Overhead, a familiar bright shape flashed against the clouds, and Nightwing turned to make a face at Batman, who was standing beside the floodlight. "You know, there's this invention called a telephone. It would be a lot easier to just callhim and ask him to meet you on the roof."

Batman joined him at the edge of the parapet. "So you've said."

He grinned. They had the same conversation every time the Bat Signal lit the sky. He waved his hands at Batman. "I have holographic computers with satellite internet in my gloves. You're using smoke signals."

"The light reminds the city I'm watching," Bruce said seriously, but the corner of his mouth twitched up, so slightly that Dick wasn't sure he actually saw it.

The door at the far side of the roof creaked open, and both heroes turned as Commissioner Gordon stepped out. "Looking for me?" he asked. He saw Nightwing and his eyes narrowed. His hand twitched toward his gun, but he stopped the motion halfway. "Let me guess, you want me to meet someone."

Batman nodded.

"Hey, Commissioner." Dick waved and gave a cheeky smile. "I'm Nightwing."

Gordon sighed and advanced across the roof. His gaze raked up and down Nightwing, and Dick could see his eyes pausing here and there, taking note of the armoured costume, the bird symbol, the escrima sticks. Then he gave Batman a dark look and beckoned with a jerk of his head.

The two older men stepped aside. Gordon spoke quietly, but Dick could still hear him if he focused. "You know I've never approved of you working with a child." He paused as if expecting an answer, but Batman said nothing. Gordon pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I resigned myself to Robin's presence. But word's out that you've had a young girl running with you recently. And then you bring me this Nightwing. What is he, fifteen, sixteen? How many kids are you going to put in danger?"

Nightwing smirked and hopped down from the parapet onto the roof. "After seven years, you still don't recognise my voice?" he called over.

Commissioner Gordon turned around, still frowning. He put his glasses back on and looked hard at Nightwing again. "Robin?"

He spread his arms. "All grown up. One less kid for you to worry about."

The look on Gordon's face told Dick he wasn't likely to stop worrying any time soon. "Are you still working with Batman?"

"Yeah," he said defiantly.

"Good."

That response caught Dick a little off guard. "I thought you disapproved."

Gordon smiled a tired sort of smile. "I just want to see you safe. If you're set on spending your life fighting, you're better off with a partner than alone."

"I won't be with Batman as much," Nightwing admitted. "But I won't be alone."

"I guess that's the best I can ask for," sighed Gordon. "Good luck."

"Thanks."

Behind Gordon, Batman vanished into the shadows. Time to go. "Duty calls," said Dick, and leapt up to the parapet. "See you, Commissioner." He gave a salute and fell backward off the roof, firing his grappler to catch the edge as he dropped.

Batman started driving before Nightwing even reached the ground. Dick jumped onto his bike and whipped down the road after him.

Bruce's voice came over his helmet radio. "Copy?"

"Loud and clear. What are the details on this drug boat?"

"It's coming in to pier fourteen, twenty-one thirty."

Dick waited a few seconds for more. Silence. "That's all you've got?" he asked.

"Expect men with guns."

"Well, naturally."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

_Gotham City._

_October 6. 21:23._

Two thin cables shot upward, and Batman and Nightwing soared onto the dockyard's main loading crane, the best vantage point for watching piers nine through sixteen. As they settled on the narrow metal lattice, a chill breeze swirled around them, carrying the smell of rain. Bruce's cape fluttered and Dick's hair swept sideways across his eyes. The entire crane arm rocked underfoot like a ship riding waves of wind. Batman crouched for better balance, but Nightwing remained standing and swayed with the crane as he focused his night vision binoculars on pier fourteen.

At first he saw nothing unusual. A mid-sized cargo ship rode at anchor, half unloaded. Its shipping containers stood in stacks on the pier, not yet moved to the main dockyard. A few flickering area lights deepened the pools of darkness between them. Nothing moved.

Wait—there, almost invisible in the ship's shadow, a long boat slid along the end of the dock with its running lights turned off. It barely even registered in the night vision lenses. Nightwing increased the magnification and counted four men on deck, all carrying guns. As he watched, two of them leapt to the pier and bent over the mooring posts. Right on time.

"Call it in," said Batman.

Dick dialled 911 on his wrist computer. It rang once, twice, three times before a woman's voice clicked onto the line. "911, what's the nature of your emergency?"

"There's—there's men with guns on pier fourteen!" Dick said. "Oh, my God, I think they're trying to kill someone!"

"Police are on their way," she replied. "Can you—"

Dick hung up on her and glanced at his glove computer's clock. Average police response time to the docks gave them twelve minutes. Time to get moving.

Beside him, Batman rose and began walking along the swaying crane arm. He leaned forward and held the edge of his cape bunched in one hand so the wind couldn't catch in the cloth and blow him off balance. Another reason not to wear a cape. In his more streamlined costume, Nightwing compensated easily for the breeze.

They dropped off the end of the crane to the stacked containers below, landed together, and fell into the steady lope they always used for long rooftop trips. The first heavy, cold drops of rain splattered on Nightwing's head and shoulders as he ran, and the wind sharpened and whipped his hair against his cheeks. He grinned. This was good. No conspiracies or super villains, no distractions or fears, just rain and the slap of boots on damp metal and the rising thrill of anticipation that always came before a fight.

At the edge of the dockyard they paused on the last row of containers, and Dick switched his mask lenses over to night vision and focused on pier fourteen again. This time he picked out six men unloading cardboard boxes from the boats, and another four approaching them from between the piles of shipping containers, all carrying guns and one hauling a small duffel bag. Nightwing glanced at his clock again; eight minutes left.

He didn't need to look at Batman for his cue. Nightwing jumped down first, and his rubber-soled boots scraped only the tiniest sound from the damp asphalt as he hit the ground. Behind him he heard the rustle and swish of Batman's cape, so soft it could have been the breeze. Dick darted across the open space where pier fourteen met the dockyard, being careful to avoid the blotch of stark brightness under the humming area light. A jagged flicker of black cloth followed in the edge of his vision.

Raindrops fell faster as Batman and Nightwing slipped into the shadow of the containers on the pier. For a moment Dick heard the voices of the men clustered around the boat, but then the echoing patter of water on metal shipping crates rose over the quieter sound. Dick's mask kept the rain out of his eyes, but it seeped through his hair and started trickling down the back of his uniform, cold against his skin.

Time for a fight. More than that, time for Nightwing's grand entrance. He glanced at Bruce, who didn't move. All right, if he wanted Dick to take lead, Dick was going to make it theatrical. He smirked and took a running leap up the side of the stacked containers. The wet metal didn't give much purchase; he scrambled up a little less gracefully than he intended. Batman flowed up after him and stopped beside him at the top, waiting.

Dick led the way to the end of the pier and stood at the edge of the container stack where he could look directly down on the criminals below. They didn't seem to feel the need to talk. One of the men from the boat pulled open a box and held up a fuzzy dog puppet, then flipped it over and let a white package fall into his hand.

"Wow, that's original," said Nightwing loudly, then smiled and waved as ten startled faces jerked toward him. "And really secure," he continued, as the guns all swung up to aim at him. "I'm sure nobody would think to turn the puppets upside-down."

"Get him!" yelled the man holding the drug-stuffed puppet.

Gunfire spattered the container, but Nightwing was gone. His jumpline latched onto the nearest area light and he swung down in a steep arc, laughing as adrenaline rushed through him. Puppet-man took a pair of boots to the forehead and dropped as the line tightened and Dick's momentum carried him upward again. He released his line and curled into a tight aerial somersault, felt the air part around him as bullets missed their mark, drew his escrima sticks as he flipped, and straightened out to slam feet-first onto another drug dealer.

By the time the man's head finished smacking against the concrete, Nightwing was whirling into a sequence of flips and strikes, never stopping long enough to become a target, and three seconds later another thug joined his companions on the ground. Nightwing spun toward another enemy and his sticks blurred curves and circles through the air: quick hit to the gun hand, then one-two-three to the arm, shoulder, head; high and low strike at the same time, and the man dropped his gun and curled in on himself, trying to clutch his crotch and throat at the same time without using his damaged arm. A swift kick brought the guy all the way down just as Nightwing realised he'd turned his back on a gun.

He fell to a low crouch, one hand flat on the ground, saw the muzzle flare bright in the darkness, and heard the bullet whiz overhead as he spun on the heel of his hand and lashed out with both feet against the side of the thug's knee.

The man collapsed, screaming and clutching his leg, and Nightwing regained his feet just in time to fling himself out of the way as automatic gunfire ripped into the pavement beside him. He hated automatic weapons. Staying clear was more luck than skill—that many bullets flying, nobody could dodge them all for long. Dick rolled and cartwheeled and still felt lines of heat slicing through the air around him and chips of concrete ricocheting against his body. He felt himself slowing down; his sore arm jarred painfully every time his hands hit the ground.

Then the shooter jerked and stumbled as a batarang bounced off his head. Bullets stopped flying. The winged shadow swooped out of the darkness, slammed the side of one hand against the thug's gun arm, and brought the other hand around in a quick chop to the top of the shoulder. The goon crumpled to the ground.

Silence fell. Dick looked around, panting, and realised the fight was over. He straightened and slid his escrima sticks into their holster. He rubbed his elbow, then stopped when he caught Batman watching the motion sharply. "Five each," he said. "We'll have to pick another fight to break the tie."

The corner of Batman's mouth twitched so slightly even Dick barely saw it. "Are any of them badly injured?" he asked.

Nightwing shrugged. "Couple possible concussions, broken knee. They'll be all right."

Sirens wailed at the edge of hearing and quickly grew louder. The first drug seller Nightwing landed on struggled to his feet, still clutching his fuzzy puppet, and tried to run from the sound, but Dick stuck out a foot and tripped him. He hit the ground with a groan.

Nightwing bent over and shone the light from his wrist computer in the guy's eyes. "Sluggish pupillary reaction," Dick informed him. "You're definitely concussed. You shouldn't try to get up. Just wait for the ambulance."

"Who the hell's this?" grumbled a familiar voice. "God, don't we have enough freaks in tights wandering around this city already?"

"Nice to see you too, Bullock," said Dick. He turned around, stuck out his hand, and gave the dishevelled cop his brightest grin. "Call me Nightwing."

"Great." Bullock picked something from between his teeth. "Another kid."

"Nope." Dick flung his arms wide and bowed. "Same kid, new name."

Bullock frowned at him for a few seconds, then sighed. "Whatever. You're still not welcome on my crime scene."

The vigilantes turned away. "You're welcome!" called Nightwing over his shoulder, still grinning. "Say hi to Commissioner Gordon from me!"

"You bet I will," muttered Bullock darkly, barely loud enough to hear.

Dick gave the cop his trademark cackle as he faded into the darkness with Batman. He felt good. He hadn't realised how much satisfaction he'd lost lately, when it felt like Batman was dragging him away from the Team for patrols. But this—patrolling because he wanted to, with the cold rain plastering his hair to his cheeks, the fading adrenaline rush of a good straightforward fight, the guilty pleasure he took in annoying Bullock—this was right.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_Mount Justice._

_October 7. 16:05._

Blue-gold light faded into grey dimness. The high whirring noise of the zeta transport beam morphed into a voice: "Recognized: Nightwing, B01."

He stepped forward, hauling his suitcase, and three sets of startled, suspicious eyes locked onto him. Rocket and Zatanna stood on either side of Kaldur, who raised a water-bearer in his good hand. Razor-sharp liquid coiled through the air.

Dick laughed and held up his hands. "Stay turbed, guys, it's me."

Aqualad lowered his weapon, and the water trickled back into its tube. "Robin."

"Not any more. Call me Nightwing." He spread his arms and turned on the spot to show off his costume. "What do you think?"

"I see you kept the black," said Rocket, eyeing him. "Mm-mm."

Zatanna, scowling, elbowed Raquel in the ribs.

Dick sniggered and grinned wider. Maybe he should have dressed all in black sooner if it got this kind of reaction.

M'gann and Conner burst into the room. "What's wrong?" asked M'gann. "I felt how startled you all—oh."

"Hi, Robin," said Conner tonelessly.

"Hey, Conner. Name's Nightwing, now."

"How'd you know it was him?" asked Zatanna.

"Recognised his heartbeat."

Nightwing gave Superboy a startled look. "You can do that?"

He shrugged. "With people I've been around a lot."

"Huh." Dick filed _that_ away for future reference. He wondered if Batman knew.

"Something's different," said M'gann. "Well, other than the costume, obviously. You're…happier."

"Yeah." Nightwing grinned. "Batman and I have been working through some things these past few days. I'm tired of everyone thinking of Robin as a child, so I'm dropping the Robin identity for good. I'm also planning to lower my profile in Gotham and spend more time here."

"Nightwing, huh?" said Raquel. "It'll take some getting used to. You realise Robin's the only name we've ever had for you."

"Well, I like it," Zatanna said with a smile. "Nobody can call you a sidekick any more."

"This calls for cookies!" M'gann clasped her hands together. "Conner, will you go find Garth? He said he wants to learn surface-world cooking."

Superboy grunted and ambled away.

"What's with the bluebird?" asked Rocket. She ran a light fingertip down the middle of Dick's chest.

"It looks more like a hawk," said Zatanna, and pulled Raquel away from him. "Come on, let's hang out in the kitchen with the rest of them. Coming, Nightwing?"

"Yeah." He left his suitcase sitting in the middle of the room and followed the girls.

"Nightwing."

He turned back at the sound of Aqualad's quiet voice. Raquel and Zatanna paused also, but he waved them on. "I'll catch up in a minute."

"Okay." They vanished around the corner.

Nightwing took a deep breath and walked back across the room to stand with Aqualad. He was kind of hoping not to have this conversation so soon. He didn't know what to say.

"So," said Kaldur. "You are not a child any longer."

Dick smirked. "Was I ever?"

He meant it as a joke, something obnoxious to say so he could avoid being serious for a few seconds, but Kaldur's brow darkened. "No," he said softly. "Sometimes I think not."

"I was," Dick assured him, and smiled again. "Part of me always will be."

"Perhaps. But the fact remains: you have taken an adult identity. You have grown up. You are ready to become what you are destined to be."

"Leader." He looked away. "I don't know."

Kaldur laid his good hand on Dick's shoulder. "I told you once that you were born to lead this team. I know that to be true, now more than ever."

He swallowed. He knew it too. Wasn't that what he told Bruce? He had to give up Robin so people would take him seriously, so he could become a leader. Part of him wanted it. He knew how to lead. He was good at it. People liked him, trusted him, listened to him.

But part of him shrank away in terror at the mere idea of taking charge. He had enough experience now to know leadership wasn't fun. It was terrifying to hold the entire outcome in his hands. One unclear order, one tactical error, one moment slipping out of his control, one contingency he failed to plan for, and all his friends might die.

Or…or the worst thing a leader might have to do, the thing he'd been forced to do once before, the day that had taught him he never, ever wanted to bear that kind of responsibility. He might have to knowingly, calmly sacrifice his friends. He shouldn't have to do that. He shouldn't be _able _to do that. That was what scared him the worst, knowing that somewhere inside him he had that ability to stay cold and logical, to keep making the tactically sound decisions no matter what it cost him personally, no matter if it ripped his heart to shreds.

He forced his eyes up to meet Kaldur's. "You called it a burden. When you became leader. I thought you were being dramatic."

"But now you understand."

Dick nodded.

"That means you truly are ready."

He shook his head. His voice came out too small. "I'm scared."

"Good. A leader who does not fear his mistakes will forget caution. If you ever stop fearing the consequences of your commands, you are not fit to lead."

"Kaldur, I…I can't." Dick bit his lip. "I know this is selfish, but I'm not…I can't take responsibility for everyone. Not yet. Please." He ducked his head again. He felt like a coward, taking the easy way out, shirking his duty.

Kaldur's cold webbed fingers slid under his chin and forced him to look up and meet the Atlantean's pale eyes. "Nightwing. Do not be ashamed. If you do not feel ready, I will not force this burden on you." He smiled slightly. "As you would say, stay traught, my friend."

Dick couldn't help smiling back at that. Kaldur always seemed to know the right thing to say. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Kaldur inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Shall we join the others?"

As if on cue, a huge crash echoed down the hall from the kitchen, and M'gann shrieked in dismay. A sequence of smaller clattering noises followed, mixed with the sound of breaking glass, and Zatanna's voice rose sharply over the noise.

Nightwing smirked and waved Aqualad forward as the smell of smoke drifted to his nose. "Oh, you first. After all, you're the leader."


End file.
